My First Hate
by The Labris
Summary: This is a rather violent fic about Draco's feelings for Ginny. Um, don't know if it clasifies as Romance, but it's still pretty cool.
1. Part I: Like a California King

**MY FIRST HATE**

~by The Labris~

**PART ONE:**

**Like a California King**

* * *

I see you have made yourself a brand new life,

Such a cool blue star with a bright new shine.

I see you wear your checkered past just like a shining suit of gold,

I know you think you look so special.

– Everclear, "Like a California King"

* * *

I must have loathed her more than any one person on the whole planet. If there was one person I wanted to see fail, one person I wanted to see hurt, or one person I wanted to see ashamed, it was her. I must have hated her for years; gods knew I'd hated her family since I was old enough to know the difference between the wizarding families. Her mere presence grated on my nerves. Her very voice made me homicidal with hatred. Even her eyes made me want to erupt with such hate and rage I often thought she was some sort of demon controlling my mind. It was completely irrational, of course, but I hated her just the same.

She was just too much. She always had that certain spark, that one thing that makes you notice. She looked like a modern day Venus, her perfect, rose-colored hair and pool-like amber eyes. She had the body to match, 'a goddess among girls' some of the boys called her. It didn't matter she was a Weasley, beauty was admired in all houses by Slytherin, not that they'd care to admit it, of course. But hers was not a beauty they were permitted to sample. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I hated her with such passion, one of the reasons I wanted to see her suffer.

It wasn't the only reason, though. No, her looks might have been the start of it. Maybe it was because I could never have her, because that Potter bastard got to her first. Oh, yes, they were perfect together, a beautiful couple, and it only served to fuel my hatred further. She looked so happy, so serene. It hardly seemed fair that one person could be so bleeding and completely blissful. It hardly seemed fair that someone's life could be so fucking perfect. And it certainly wasn't fair that she was so supremely content.

I can admit (to myself) that I may have been jealous. How could she, living in her stupid little shack of a house, be happy? Why would she, lower than dirt and more insignificant than an anthill in Africa, be satisfied? After all the pain she'd been put through in her first year you would think she would be scarred in some way. You would think that she would be unstable, or insane, or depressed, or angry, or in pain, or violent, or something _other _than happy. You would think she would hold pain in her eyes when she walked down the hall. You would think she wouldn't be able to look people in the face out of shame. You would think that she would have scars or something.

But somehow she just continued. She lived as though nothing had happened. I was never ignorant; I knew what my father had done to her; I knew who she was. She was the Heir of Slytherin. She was a bleeding daughter of the Dark Lord's soul. She had the more promise of evil in her fingernail than the whole school combined. And did she let it bother her? Did she show her fear and rage against those who had wronged her? Did she even acknowledge my existence? Did she have the bloody sense to fear who I was?

No.

No to all of it. She lived like she walked in a dream. She played Chaser for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. She excelled in Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts. She could beat the knickers off most people older than her in dueling club. She helped the younger years with their Charms homework on Wednesday evenings. She sat with the popular Gryffindor crowd at the meal table. She even found time to spend with her boyfriend, Potter.

No girl could possibly be that perfect. And yet she was. I hated her for her perfection. She should have been dark. She should have been wounded. She should have been unstable. She should have been depressive. She should have been a thousand things. But not _perfect_. She should not have been able to wear her past proudly on her sleeve. She should not have been able to live with herself. And yet she did. And it confused me to no end how she could.

She was always so proud. She stood tall, though she could barely reach my shoulder. She seemed tall though; perhaps it was just her attitude. She acted out of her cast, the mold I placed her in when I first saw her. She had the looks of a fighter in her, some one who survived and came back punching. But when you get down to it, all Gryffindors had that. No real child of Godric was placed in the 'noble house of Gryffindor' unless they were true-blue, grit-in-your-teeth-and-heart-on-your-sleeve diehards. Yes, she would be proud until the day of her death. I seem to remember hearing somewhere that pride covers a great multitude of sins. Like Ginevra Weasley is capable of sinning…

* * *

I know you think you look so special.

What makes you think you are so special?

What makes you think you are unique?

I see you smile and I get angry,

As I watch you go colossal.

* * *

Even now she is defiant. Even now she is proud, a true Gryffindor. Another reason why I hate her with all I am. Even now she stands selfless. Even now, though she bleeds (I had to see if she was truly human), though she struggles in the ropes (I had to make sure she could not escape), and though she grits her teeth in pain (I had to reassure myself of her humanity again), she stays proud. She never once cried out, she never once spoke to me, and she never once looked at me as if I were anything other than scum beneath her feet.

I turn my lips up as I look at her. Her flesh is still pink from heat, her cuts still flowing freely with her noble, Gryffindor blood, and her eyes are still sharp and cutting. I run my fingers down her jaw, feeling her stiffen under my fingers, her very body rejecting my touch. She seems not to fear me, nor does she seem to be weakening. It is unfortunate, for the torture will have to last longer her way. I don't mind.

She is my first, assigned by my father and charged to me by the Dark Lord himself. Not her specifically, but anyone. I chose her as my first. It only seemed natural; after all, she was a Weasley. She was Potter's girlfriend. She was a Mudblood and Muggle sympathizer. She was a Gryffindor. It couldn't have been any more perfect. She, my first true hate, would be my first true torture.

I had watched tortures before, watched as people screamed out in pain, watched as they bled and eventually died. It was an initiation of some sort, a right of passage, if you will, into the Death Eaters. All who were in the top ranks of the Dark Lord were required to present their broken specimen to He Who Must Not Be Named himself. It was a sort of present. My father's present was Peter Pettigrew. Mine would be even greater. For what could possibly be greater than the Heir of Slytherin?

I trail my fingers down her throat, my eyes never leaving hers. Still there is no fear, still she stays silent, and still she shows nothing. She confuses and infuriates me still. No one can possibly be that strong! No one can be that righteous! No one can be that great! So I smack her, watching her head fling to the side and her cheeks flush immediately. No sound!

"Why," I seethe quietly. "Why do you not cry out? Why do you not yield, Weasley!?!"

It makes me even more enraged that I cannot break her. Nothing I do, nothing anyone can do could break that infernal woman! I have done everything. Physical pain seems to not faze her. Psychological pain is child's play in her eyes. Even the Unforgivables get no utter of word from her. I am on my last thread! Forty-nine hours of torture and she has not so much as breathed differently. Forty-nine hours of torture and she has yet to show signs of needing rest. She was like a stone. And what is worse, I am beginning to suspect she is breaking me.

_No,_ I will _not_ let her break me. Not ever. _I _am the one in control here! _ I _am the one with the instruments of torture! _ I _am the one who holds her life in my hands! …So why does this seem like a battle? This should be like a game of cat and mouse! I should not be questioning myself, especially not in front of her. But gods…why does defiance have to be so beautiful on her face?

She just turns her head up at my questions, not bothering to respond to my insults. Her long, gracefully curved neck is white against her blood and the black, ripped shirt she wears. She looks above her, perhaps as though some god or deity, or, perhaps, for her precious Potter to come and save her. And yet there is nothing pious about the way she looks. Nothing in the way of mourning, either. No sign of her ever giving up.

"Why?" I repeat. I hate it, but my voice jumped as I asked it.

She takes a breath, her eyes still focused on a point above and behind me. And then she looks at me. I take the full force of her amber-sugar eyes, but I cannot find it in me to turn away from her. She does look like a martyr right now, beautiful, strong, and proud. And there is something else.

"Do you truly wish to know?" she asks. Her voice is gravelly and uneven. That is to be expected, for she has not been given water in too long and she has not used her voice once in my presence.

"Yes," I whisper, hoping I sound as dangerous as I feel, or at least want to feel.

For a moment it seems she is teasing me with the answer because she does not speak. She turns her head and focus on that point above and beyond me again, her eyes growing distant and soft. It is the first time that she has shown any sign of letting her guard down, or letting me into her defenses. And yet she has not let me so far in that I can sabotage them. Smart girl.

"Because," she said slowly, her voice leveling out. "I have survived hell, Draco Malfoy. Do you truly think that this," she looked about her, and then into my eyes, "this _child's play_ can break me when I've walked darker and more dangerous paths? Did you actually believe that your pathetic attempts to subdue me would work after I'd been broken and tossed aside by Satan?" And here she scoffed a demeaning scoff, a chillingly familiar smirk on her lips as she bored into my eyes. Gray seemed to be a very weak color when assaulted by amber. "And I thought you were a _Slytherin. Gods, _aren't you supposed to be _clever_?"

And then she does something I never expected from her. She throws her gorgeous head of hair back and laughs. It is a deep, throaty, courtesan's laughter, as though it came from deep in her chest and reverberated its way to her fleshy lips. She was laughing at me…right in front of my face. She was laughing at me as I tortured her, as though I were tickling her, not threatening her life.

"Stop it!" I command sharply, my face, no doubt, contorting in rage. "Stop it!" I yell again, pulling my wand out and waving it around dangerously. She just keeps laughing her stimulating laughter. "I command it!" And yet she continues.

"_Alohamora!_" I yell. The shackles that were holding her suspended in the air let her down as the charm unlocked them.

* * *

I will find you in the crowded room.

I will knock you off your feet.

I will burn you just like teenage love.

I will eat you just like meat.

I will break you into pieces,

Hold you up for all the world to see.

* * *

I watch her fall to the ground, her lithe little body folding on itself, her arms weak from being held above her head and her legs limp from straining to reach the ground and relieve pressure from her arms. She just kept with her evil, manic laughter, her eyes quite clearly watering when she looked up at me.

"Stop it!" I screeched, kneeling down and shaking her by her shoulders. She just kept looking at me with her tawny eyes, never breaking contact. It was as I feared, she was winning the battle. I could not let her win! I _would_ master her! She would not master me! I stopped shaking her, and though her laughter had died down to a low chuckle she seemed to mock me with just her eyes.

"Don't you see?" she whispered. She sounded so dark, so tarnished…had I judged her so wrongly? "Don't you see?"

"See what?" I whispered in demand. She wasn't looking at me again; her eyes were far beyond anything material. She had that distant, unreachable look to her again. "See what?" I asked again, shaking her, trying to cut her from her thoughts.

"What I was. What you are. Don't you see any of it?" she replied, looking full-force at me now.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"…still doesn't know… …still hasn't managed to figure it out…" she muttered to herself. "You _pawn_," she said spitefully. Her voice was full of anger, though I sensed that it wasn't at me. She felt nothing for me. And for a moment I hated her for it. I had tortured her. I had almost killed her. I had been ruthless to her during school. I felt something for her – hatred deeper than my own blood! And she felt nothing for me!

I recall my father once said the worst type of hatred was indifference. I now know what he means. She didn't hate me. It was worse than that; she didn't even acknowledge me. She didn't see me as anything more than perhaps an annoying bit of dust on her shoulder. That enraged me beyond all comprehension.

"What do you speak of, Weasley?" I ground out.

She looked at me, snorted and shook her head slightly. "You're his _pawn_. He_ owns_ you…and you don't even see it!"

"You forget your place," I growl. How dare she say things like that!? I could kill her with my two bare hands!

"No," she replied coolly. "Actually, I know my place quite well. You see, I've been where you are now. I know what it feels like. And believe me when I say you've already lost. Do you think you shall receive riches? Power? What has he promised you? What has he told you?" She looked at me hard and snorted at what she saw. "Do you really believe he will share his power if he wins?"

"No," I deny, not in answer to her questions, but to block her out and make her quiet. I cannot hear the blasphemy. I won't listen to her sacrilegious rampages! She cannot profane the great and powerful Dark Lord like that. Does she know who he is? What he could do to her?

And then it hit me. Yes. Yes, she does know. And what was worse, she knew that she knew. She was, after all, the Heir of Slytherin. She'd seen the Dark Lord do his work. She'd felt his magic flow through her. She'd tasted the tinge of regret when he took her over. She had been his complete pawn, doing whatever he said without question. Of course she knew what she was talking about.

"You lie," I deny again, willing it to be untrue.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she asked quietly, her amber eyes glinting with some mad joy. "The truth always hurts. And you know what I say is the truth. After all," she added, as though it were an afterthought. "I am a Gryffindor. We don't lie."

It did hurt. It was the truth. And she was a Gryffindor; they didn't lie.

I felt as though a world came crashing down on him. Perhaps it wasn't even mine. Perhaps it wasn't even real. Whatever it was swarmed around me, spiraling wickedly. It seemed to laugh at me, taunt me for not seeing it earlier. _A pawn! _ All I was in the eyes of my master was a pawn. I would be killed as soon as the Dark Lord had what he wanted.

* * *

What makes you think you are the only one immune to falling down?

Why can't you see?

I see you fall and I get happy,

I will watch you burn like fire.

* * *

And before I knew it I was filled with such a supreme hatred and a will to lash out with it upon the red-haired, tawny-eyed, full-lipped Weasley woman. Oh, how I would love to rip off that torn little shirt of hers and cut her deeply with a knife. Or better yet with my very own nails so I could feel her skin peeling into my claws. I would relish in her blood and pain, relish in her suffering. I would make her cry out in agony before it was all over! I would ravage those lips until they bled under my pressure and terror would fill her laughing eyes.

All I wanted was to make her feel my pain in confusion. All I wanted was a reaction, a feeling beyond indifference from her. I always got what I wanted. No matter the costs and no matter the consequence, Draco Malfoy got what he wanted, and I wasn't going to be stopped by some poorly bred Weasley. Her days of superiority and pride were over and done with.

But before I could exact my revenge she said something that made me think. Her eyes met mine, and a whole new world was opened to me. It barely mattered that she had killed his illusions. It hardly replaced them, but it also made me curious. I remember some proverb that curiosity killed the cat. But I wonder – will it kill the dragon? That light in her eyes, no matter how brief it was, caught my attention.

"But you don't have to be," she said softly. "A pawn, I mean. You don't have to be. If there was one thing I learned, it is that you never have to do what you don't want to. You don't have to be controlled. You don't have to be demeaned. You certainly don't have to die for him. I thought I did and I was wrong."

The words hit me like frigid water. 'Not doing it' was never an option for me before. Actually, I had never even thought of it. And I realized at that moment that it was because it had never been programmed into my mind. Choices? Those were for my father to make. Those were for my master to make. Surely…surely she lied when she spoke of choices.

But then…

The words reverberated in my head. But then she'd made a choice. I could do anything a Weasley could do. I could probably do it better. If she had choices then I certainly had choices. I did not want to be a slave to a man that would kill me without a second glance. Truth be told I never had wanted that. My father wanted that. Why was it so hard to tell the difference between the two?

"Do you see now?" she asked, looking at me calmly. Her eyes were guarded and closed again.

I stayed silent for a while. "Yes," I whispered. I did understand.

It seemed as though a wet cloak had been lifted off of me and I could finally stand up straight and free. It seemed as if I could do anything at that moment; and right then, I felt like leaving and never coming back. Yes, that sounded very good.

"Get up," I command.

But she stays, not moving. Her eyes are on my face, as though she were reading an open book. A fit of rage comes over me and I stand violently, tugging her up. How dare she presume to read me!? She seems unperturbed, unashamed, and untouched by my flaring of emotional rage.

But for now I will ignore it. I grab my wand from my pocket and watch her carefully. She sways, looking slightly ill. No matter, I will have to carry her then. She can't weigh much, the waif. I pull her up harshly as she sways again and her eyes shoot me an unreadable expression. I hate how she can read me so easily and I can't begin to comprehend her. Just who does she think she is?

"Where do you live?" I ask. It took me a while to decide where I wanted to go. I couldn't go back to my home with her. I couldn't take her to any of my relatives. I couldn't take her to the Ministry or Mungo's. I couldn't very well take her to Hogwarts. So unless she lived in her parents' house, we were going to her house.

"In Hogsmeade," she replied after a moment, giving herself a few seconds to study my face. "A small house on the outskirts of town, northern quadrant, the farthest from Hogwarts."

I nod and grip her and my wand. I've never done double Apparition. I suppose it is much like normal Apparition, only perhaps harder. So I Apparate. It works, of course, and she and I stand in the pale moonlight, a small cottage-like house is thirty feet from us. I don't know if it reflects her or not. People say that you can learn a lot about people from where they live. It applies to me, I suppose. Her house is small, though neat. There is a large garden in the front of the house and it is surrounded by a white fence. The house itself is a beige color with white shutters and a large red door. The house screams poor suburban life, but that is until she leads me in.

She is limping, weary, probably from lack of sleep. I've had very little sleep too, but the call for her blood is less now. Right now, the call for sleep overrides all the violence and hate I feel for her. Right now, the only thing I want to do is escape the lies of my father and my master.

The house is dark inside, but as soon as she turns the light on I see flawless décor. Rich, dark rugs cover the wooden floors and artful couches. She lights her fire and I see more. The house is larger than it looks on the inside, the ceiling's higher, and there is a staircase next to the kitchen door that I expect leads upstairs and to her sleeping rooms. I vaguely wonder what her rooms look like.

"You have my wand," she says quietly.

"I left it," I reply.

She sighs, giving me another guarded look and heads to a door underneath the stairs. She pulls out a thick blanket embroidered in gold. I find myself wondering what she does for a living. Her parents surely didn't give her any of these things. Perhaps her boyfriend Harry bought them for her. The thought makes me sneer. Of course Potter would have bought her these things. They were practically married, weren't they? In fact, he would probably be here.

I was so stupid! I played into her little plots once again. She had truly broken me. No! I will not go down without a fight! I must act fast. As soon as she puts down the blanket and pillow on the couch I am on her, my wand sticking into her throat mercilessly as my other arm holds her arms down.

And for some reason she doesn't struggle. Potter must be here for her not to be so scared. Her bloody protector was no doubt right up the stairs and waiting for her to come home to him. "Where is he?" I hear myself growl.

She doesn't struggle again, merely looks ahead of her. It is as if she is used to violence. It crosses my mind that she probably is. "We are alone," she says calmly. "I live alone."

The words run through my mind and I find myself letting go of her. She tells the truth. Gryffindors don't lie, they find it despicable. If anything I've learned that. "Where is Potter?" I ask. Of course, I am suspicious. Slytherins are always suspicious.

She steps away from me, facing me and crossing her arms. "I thought you would have heard. It was a big scandal. He married Cho Chang and ran off with Hermione Granger. Ron was happy of course, already married to that Veela-bitch, Fleur Delacour, and up to his arse with children. He never liked Cho Chang much. Come to think of it, I never did, either."

To my surprise I snort. It is mildly comedic, her representation of what happened. I had always figured her for the type that would marry and have a truckload of red-headed, squalling brats. At (well if I was twenty-four she had to be twenty-three or -two) her age I would have suspected the beginnings of a regular tribe of red-headed, screeching Weasley children. But then, as I was learning, she wasn't exactly as she appeared. And as I looked at her, the more her indifference intrigued me. Another mystery to solve.

"I always thought that you would marry Harry fucking Potter," I said snidely, seeing if that prod would hurt at all.

She snorted, turning her back on me and sitting on her couch. It didn't seem to hurt, but then, she was a master of controlling her emotions…outwardly at least. She looked on at the fire as if it would give her some answers and I had the sneaking suspicion that I'd missed something rather important.

"Everyone thought it was sunshine and daisies, Harry and me," she said quietly. The fire crackled for a moment then settled down. "I see you were fooled too. Funny, at times I could even fool myself. I could make myself think that I was something other than…than whatever I was. I don't even know any more."

A game? Gryffindors played games like that? I am intrigued. I was almost certain the game she was describing was a Slytherin one. My parents played it very well. All except the roles were reversed. Most people seem to think that my father controls our house. If you'd ever seen him you would know why. But in truth it is my mother. After all, she was the sister of Bellatrix Black – I mean Lestrange. Auntie Bellatrix is the master of that game, she had learned from the best, my master. It appeared that Potter knew a few interesting games after all.

"I suppose it wasn't hard to fool most of them," she said quietly. "Everyone wanted it to happen anyway. Everyone wanted it more than I did." Then she turned on me, giving me an unreadable look. I hated that look. "Even you wanted it; that is why you believed it."

Yes, I had believed it. But now I understood.

"Isn't it funny how things like that happen," she said without an ounce of humor in her voice. She sat there for another moment or two, staring off into the fire. Then, abruptly, she stood. "I'm going to bed." And she left.

She left me standing, watching where she was sitting and not sure what to do. She'd given me blankets and a pillow, but she was going to make me sleep on the couch? A Malfoy, sleep on the couch? That was ridiculous. I snorted, looking disdainfully at the couch and then up the stairs. But I gave in. I was too tired and I needed sleep. Perhaps tomorrow I could find somewhere I wouldn't have to sleep on the couch.

* * *

I see you fall and I get happy,

I will watch you burn like fire.

I will watch you burn like a California king.


	2. Part II: Feelings

**MY FIRST HATE**

~by The Labris

**PART II:**

**Feelings**

* * *

Feelings,  
For all my life I'll feel it.  
I wish I'd never met you.  
You'll make me sick again.

– The Offspring, "Feelings"

* * *

She isn't awake, but it is morning. Early morning. I never sleep long. Not ever. It's because people can die in their sleep. Killed or otherwise. I don't want to die in my sleep; I don't ever want to die. But especially when I can't defend myself, old and in my bed, smelling of death and disease. I want to die beautiful if possible, but if not, at least in glory. But I am tired. I only slept for a few hours. Five, maybe six. It wasn't because her couch was uncomfortable, but because I was nervous. I kept on hearing things. They were nothing. The roses on the windowsill, the rush of wind outside, the fire cracking softly, they kept me awake for a long time.

Until I couldn't take it anymore. I went exploring. Her kitchen is small, but sparklingly clean. There's a permanent cleansing charm on that kitchen. I know because the dirt I brought in on my shoes disappeared before my eyes. Her kitchen has rosemary growing in the window box in front of the window next to the sink. The curtains are a fresh, pink and red pattern. She looks like she cooks for herself, and probably a lot. Her dishes are white, plain, but fitting for her. They are fine porcelain, I don't know where she got the money for them; they're from China, a direct import. Above the doorway on a ledge I noticed three, rather large, porcelain plates. They had golden words on the bottom of them. The one on the left said "Aurors;" the one in the middle said "Voldemort;" and the one on the right said "Harry Potter." I found them while I was looking for her knives.

She had quite a few, and I bet she knew how to use them, too. I picked one out after looking at her silver collection. It was slim and long, fitting under my long sleeves easily. I put it there before I crept up her stairs. They don't squeak, they don't groan either, like I would have expected. My stairs groan, at the manor. I guess I don't feel comfortable unless the stairs groan. I think she has a charm on those, too. The carpet upon them is expensive, too – Persian. In the light of early morning I was able to notice that all her rugs are Persian.

Finally, up the stairs, I see four doors. I open the first and see it is another linen closet. There are several interesting looking boxes on the top shelf, but I decide not to open them. I can always find out later after all.

So I open the next door. It leads to her bathroom. White, marble, clean, mature. Almost like a bathroom that you would find in an expensive hotel. It didn't have a personality, just rich.

And then it hits me. Her house doesn't have a personality. …Actually, it does. It hides things. Perhaps it hides them even better then my house. If you walked in her house you would see a slightly homey, if not upscale, but small house. It wouldn't strike you as odd, something a lucky young woman might have. Nothing stuck out in particular, nothing was interesting enough to look at for too long. It begged to be ignored, but in a civil tone, as if it was protecting something. And maybe it was. I don't know.

My house is different, closed off in a snobbish way. It screams to stay out. It's a dangerous house, not pretty, but then not ugly. It's old, been passed down from Malfoy to Malfoy, family to family, for centuries. It's clean, but a museum of mysteries that aren't encouraged to be solved. The main message is 'keep out.'

I close the door to her bathroom and walk to the next door. It doesn't open, but I don't press it. I don't want her to wake up just yet. I just move to the next door. It has to be where she sleeps. She wouldn't dare lock her door. Every door has a key, once you find it, so she wouldn't bother.

When I open the door I see her room is just the same as the rest of the house, and even herself. Closed, rich, and clean. She has dark Persian rugs, red, green, and blue mixed with threads of gold and silver. It's interesting that her bed is in the middle of the room. Her bed is large and slightly resembling a Hogwarts bed, but not canopied. She lies in the middle, no covers. I don't blame her, it's pretty hot out. She sleeps facing the ceiling. And then it comes to me, she sleeps as one does when they expect to be attacked. I find myself wondering if it is because I'm in the house or if she always does that.

I slip the knife out of my sleeve and slink towards her bed. I dodge her cherry wood dresser, and peek in her vanity mirror. She still sleeps in her reflection. I will have to be quick if I am to surprise her.

How could I have been so weak? How could I have let her conquer me so easily? What the hell was wrong with me? Had she beaten me so easily that I followed her like a little lost puppy? Unholy Mother of Merlin…I am utterly pathetic. And gullible. The battle was clearly beginning, for I will not give in so easily.

Her very sleeping body mocks me. It is the whole reason I'm up here, to kill her. If she thinks she's broken me, she's wrong. I'll never break. I can escape her spell, her curse. All I have to do is slit her pretty little throat. It lies exposed to me as I stand over her, pure and untouched. I know I must have drawn some blood from her on her neck…but maybe she was able to heal herself before she went to bed. It wouldn't surprise me if she was an expert medi-witch too.

Merlin damn it all! It was just one more reason to kill her. Her and her blasted perfect life, living in her cleanly, richly decorated house. I hated her at that moment, and in that moment, the one when I wanted her blood the most; I leapt onto the bed, straddling her hips and simultaneously pinning her arms down to her sides with my knees. One of my hands when to her mouth, the other held the knife to her throat.

Her sugar-spun, amber eyes flew open, but to my surprise, she didn't try to scream or even struggle. One more reason to stop where I was. It was too easy to kill her like that. She didn't even make a sound! How can she not fear this? I held her life dangling in front of her, even I feared this! What the hell was wrong with her?

* * *

Feelings,  
Feelings like I never liked you,  
Feelings like I want to kill you,  
Live in my heart.

* * *

She just looked at me and I felt my anger boiling. "I hold a knife to your neck, Weasley," I say harshly in a low, cold voice. "I could kill you. Why do you not even struggle? Do you hate life so much?"

For her to reply, I take my hand from her mouth. She breathes in and out a few times, staring up at me with hard eyes. "No, not life. I just don't feel fear the same way I used to." She snorted and raised her neck to the blade a little. "Besides, I charmed my knives not to cut skin. They pass right through human flesh."

I growl loudly, flinging the knife away and drawing my wand from my pocket. So she wishes for it to be the old fashioned way…

"And now?" I ask her dangerously, holding the tip of my wand to her neck in place of the knife.

She inhales deeply, as if she is annoyed, not afraid as she should be. She turned to me as though I were an errant child, not a fully-grown man with a wand to her neck, threatening to kill her. Her eyes lose their anger after a moment, though she still looks at me with a stern gaze. Her face becomes one belying patience, and she sighs. "Have you learned nothing?" she asked darkly, her eyes glinting with anger briefly. "Have you become their pawn again? How many times do you need to learn it? You don't have to work their will!"

She inhales deeply again and turns her head from me, her silky neck exposed to me like a pearly beacon. "Well?" she says darkly, still not looking at me. "I'm waiting. Are you going to kill me?"

That makes me angry. She thinks she can preach to me like that and then act like I am some sort of schoolboy learning an arithmetic lesson? Who exactly does she think she's talking to? Does she know I could kill her with a word? I press the wand to her neck with more pressure, watching as the flesh turns a pinkish color, somehow harsh against her pale skin.

I suddenly feel the need to touch it, not for any reason I can discern, but because it looks pretty. I run my fingers lightly down her neck, inhaling lightly. She smells like vanilla and apricots, a dangerous combination.

But I feel her eyes on me and stop. She looks calm, calculating even. I hate that look. She seems to know all. Unable to look at her anymore, I get off her quickly, turning from her but so I can see her in the mirror. She sits slowly and looks at the ceiling for a moment, a few words I don't catch on her lips. The she rubs her neck lightly and swings her legs off her bed, standing with effort.

And then she falls. I do nothing, even though I can see it coming. I like to see her in pain. But she doesn't even look at me; she just closes her eyes and leans against her bed, bringing her legs up. "Look," she says, exertion heavy in her voice. "I can't walk. In the bathroom there's a small supply of Phoenix Tear Healing Liquid. Do you want to be a dear and get it?"

I can feel the smirk growing on my face. Get it for her. Right. So I turn, feeling the smirk on my face growing into a grin. I can see she's in pain, because though her face and eyes won't recognize it, her body is tired, haggard and beaten. I know that healing herself last night must have taken everything from her.

"Get it yourself," I say in a cold, laughing voice. Oh, the simple joys of her pain.

She looks at me for a moment, that look of impatience in her eyes again. Then her head falls down to the bed behind her, her eyes closing. She draws a deep breath and begins to stand. Her legs are wobbly, but I don't bother to help her up. If she's so damn strong she can get her own potion.

Finally, after much heavy breathing, she is standing and leaning against her dark dresser. I take in her whole form. It seems to me that she healed the biggest wounds I left on her during the days before. She doesn't have any blood on her, so I can only assume she took a shower or something. But as soon as she passes me, I see something that makes me smile.

There are spots of blood on the back of her white night slip. The dots are growing though, becoming darker and wider. She must have re-opened the cut I gave her with my long-knife with all her movement. I remember the cut well because I was afraid that she'd pass out with all the blood she'd lost from it. I had to put a temporary blood-clotting spell on it to keep her conscious. I'd gotten a little angry and cut her too deeply, a mistake that leads to death when most young people learning how to inflict pain make it. I was happy when she survived it, because it made her very uncomfortable in the next exercise I put her through.

But now the cut had re-opened and was staining her cottony, short slip. I can only think that she missed that place when she was healing herself. That or she got too tired. Either way it made my lips itch every time I saw it.

I followed her into the bathroom, watching as she rested painfully on the wall before moving to the sink. I got another view of the blood when she reached into the cupboard and took a small, glass bottle from it. The blood covered most of her back and was beginning to leak down the backs of her legs. It was dark and thick, only slightly darker than her hair, which was pulled up around the crown of her head in a loose bun. It was flowing out piece by piece, almost like her blood.

She nearly tipped the glass container over when she tried to pick it up. I smirked and leaned in the doorway, crossing my arms and snorting a little at her. She promptly fell into the bathtub, hitting her head pretty hard on the edge of the tub on her way down. Her calves and feet hung out of the porcelain bath and I could see her eyes rolling in the back of her head. She was panting heavily too, her breaths coming out slowly.

"Wouldn't it be perfect if you killed yourself while trying to heal yourself?" I asked snidely.

It brought her around if nothing else, because she pinned me in place with a shaky gaze. It was penetrating nonetheless, and got me to shut up. One hand clenching the nearly empty, glass vile and the other snaking its way to the faucet, I watched, transfixed. Her face and shoulders were pale, even her chest, or what I could see of it, was draining of color. So, breast heaving, she managed to turn the water on and plug the bathtub. The water ran hot, that knob the only one she had been able to reach. She inhaled briefly at the steaming water and I laughed again.

Sugar-amber eyes were straining to focus again; I could tell by the way they flickered around her under the lids. She looked strangely rebellious; as if she would fight to do the exact thing that I wanted her to. I wanted her to die, and she was refusing to. The water was almost at her slim hips now, and the hand that was holding the vial was shaking uneasily. I realized she was trying to lift it.

So I watched, captivated, as she raised her hand and smashed the bottle against the hard bathtub, the glass shattering on her hand and drawing more blood. The blood from her back was beginning to swirl around in the water like coloring in an exotic drink. The blood from her hand was adding to the spiraling effect of the blood and I could tell that the water had reached the cut because a fresh explosion of blood hit the water.

Her eyes were on me now, almost laughing, and certainly prideful and they pierced into me. And for a moment, a small smile of victory graced her full lips and she closed her eyes. The water was now flowing freely from the porcelain bath, but it hadn't reached me yet. And at that moment I saw her move, just a twitch, her left hand. It moved to turn the water off.

The water was only slightly pinkish now from delusion. It made me sneer. Sure, she was able to save herself, but for how long.

Standing and looking at me with that slightly annoyed look, she reached for the plug and watched the water drain for a moment. When it stopped, she stepped over walls of the bathtub and sighed when she stepped in water. It was as if she was more upset about getting her floor wet than surviving her blood loss.

Her cotton nightgown was soaked through, showing all the curves of her petite body. I could clearly see her breasts through them, her nipples hard from the pain and the chill air in the room. She was shivering a little and her hair was plastered on her face, but I had to admit she did look beautiful. There was still a pink taint from the bloodied water on her clothes, but she didn't seem to be noticing her appearance.

"Have you any idea what directly imported Persian rugs fetch for, Malfoy?" she said with a hint of anger in her voice. It seemed to me that she was much more upset about her rug than herself.

She snatched my wand from my hand quicker than I thought she could move. Then she turned from me and I raised my eyebrow. I could see all the fine curves of her buttocks and legs, her gown hugging her closely. She muttered a spell I couldn't catch and flicked my wand deftly. All the water and bloodstains were gone from the bathroom, even the ones she smeared on the wall when she'd leaned against it.

Then she forced my wand back into my hand and passed me by, her shoulder catching mine and knocking me out of my position at the doorframe. "My boyfriend used to live with me and he left some of his clothes." She glanced back at me as she kept her pace towards her room. "He was a little more built up than you were, so his clothes will be a little loose. If you know how you can fit them with a spell. I can if you don't. And don't worry," she said, her voice deadpan as she glanced at me again, entering her room and opening the third drawer to the top, "he wasn't Harry. It was my photographer.

"Now," she continued, reaching into the drawer and pulling out a black, long-sleeved shirt and a black pair of pants, "black, black, or black.º"

Looking in the drawer I saw everything was black. I sneered at her and she tossed me the clothes. Then she began made her way to a large door beside the dresser that I hadn't noticed earlier. She opened it and walked in. Soon, my curiosity got the best of me and I crept to the door. On first glance I saw a lot of clothes. And I mean a lot of clothes. She had more clothes than I did, all in the newest fashions, and most of the old ones too. She had walls of shoes and purses floated, enchanted near the ceiling. She had a separate vanity in there; this one laced with jewels, strewn about the table, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and other trinkets.

And in the center of it all was Ginny, in all her Venetian beauty, with no clothes on. Her back was turned to me so she hadn't seen me. She seemed to be vacillating between two robes, but she flicked her wrist and a pair of blue jeans and a small red shirt with gold fringes and faded golden writing appeared.

I could see the faint scar on her back and a small smile formed on my face. But she slipped her shirt on after putting on a pair of white underwear and her faded pants, covering the pinkish skin. She proceeded to sit at her vanity and give her face some color with a pinkish powder and dark eyeliner. She smacked her lips at her reflection after putting on some clear lip balm. Then she sighed, reaching back behind her and touching her pink scar lightly. She didn't flinch, but merely looked annoyed, as though it were a paper cut, not a major flesh wound.

And I suddenly found myself getting angry again. She was so calm, so controlled, so…so fake! She was faking it and she knew it. Everything she did was aimed at me! Made to make me weak! That whole stunt in the bathroom, that whole bleeding incident! She had purposely neglected that cut so as to manipulate me in some way.

But that voice inside me, that one I knew she installed, asked a simple question: why? Why would she do that? Simple, she wouldn't. She didn't have a reason, no motive. The fact that she installed that voice in my head made me angry. She thought she could change me, make me a different person. She probably even thought that I was good, deep down inside.

* * *

Feelings,  
Feelings like I want to deck you,  
Feelings like I've got to get you,  
Out of my life.

* * *

All that anger builds inside of me and I snort in frustration. She turns to me quickly, her eyes judging me and then turning blank. She stood and walked towards me. "Why haven't you changed?" she asked, passing me and leaving the room.

I growl. She thinks she can just walk out on me, just right past me? She must think that she is so much better than me. She must just assume that she is the queen of the universe and no one could stop her. That bitch! There was more of Potter in her than she was letting on.

And she just walked right over me, pretending I was nothing. I could kill her if I wanted. She didn't even have a wand! I could even kill her with my bare hands! She was such a fucking Gryffindor. It made me want to scream. I hated it that she controlled me so easily. I hated that she had that power over me, whatever it was. I just wanted to make her bleed for it, punch her perfect face in or something!

I threw the clothes at her bed and stalked down the stairs after her. Her footfalls were light on the bottom of the stairs, but I quickly caught up with her and tripped her, sending her cascading down the last two steps and landing hard on the ground. She skids a meter or so and comes to a stop when a dark rug bunches behind her. She coughs, having lost her breath, and rolls over slowly.

I stand above her with my arms crossed severely and my wand protruding from my clenched fist. Before I can say anything she frowns. It's a nasty sneer on her face, the most emotion she's shown me since I've ever met her. Faster than I can react, she whips her right leg out, cutting my legs from under me and causing me to crash to the ground, my wand lost when I try to break my fall with my hands. But she is far quicker than I would have thought. She leaps up and lands deftly on me, pinning my legs and arms down with her own.

She looks down on me, something like disappointment in her eyes. I don't understand, not at all. But she tosses her hair behind her head so it doesn't veil her face. I look up at her, her breath is light, controlled, but her chest is beating rapidly, her breasts straining against the thin red fabric.

"You must think I'm some sort of idiot, don't you, Malfoy?"

I don't even try to move against her, her amber eyes pin down better than her fragile body. She seems to feel something now. Disappointment perhaps? Maybe even anger? I confess that I don't know, but I do know that I will stay where those eyes put me.

"What goes through your head? Because I'm a Gryffindor I don't know what pain and death are?"

Her nails bite into the skin around my wrists. I don't think she realizes it because she doesn't even seem to worry about the blood seeping onto her fine wooden floors.

"You think that when Colin died I didn't feel pain or regret? Is it because I'm a Weasley that all my life must be sunshine and daisies? You must not know the story, you must not know anything."

Then she seemed to stiffen and her eyes went distant. She looked at me again, her eyes full with surprise and something I don't know. Is she…sorry? About what? She stands quickly, snatching my wand from my hands. I'm still on the ground when she points her wand at me. She's going to kill me. How the hell did this happen to me? I was supposed to kill her.

But instead of cold death, I hear soft words and a warm feeling on my wrists. When I open my eyes I see that there are no cuts on my person anymore, just pink, slightly irritated areas. She stands above me, her face calm and collected, yet distant and unreachable.

All I see is her for a moment. Crimson hair framing a soft, pale face, lightly dusted with little freckles, lean body, and long legs. She makes me remember something, some part of my life with that look. I can't fully grasp it, but I don't remember feeling this way in a long time.

And then she holds out her hand to me, her face still smooth and controlled. I don't know what she wants, and her amber eyes, now calm and unruffled, express nothing that will give me a hint.

"I can help you, Draco."

She's used my name. My given name, not Malfoy or prick or any of the other names I've been called over the years. My real name is Draco. Not just Malfoy, not bastard, not ferret, not slime ball. Draco. It's been a long time since I've thought of myself as so, a long time since I can recall someone calling me that. My father just called me son. My mother never called me at all. My…I suppose they could be considered acquaintances called me Malfoy. My enemies called me Malfoy. I called myself that.

But she called me Draco.

"I can't promise that the pain will go away, Draco."

She said it again.

"But I can promise that someday you'll forget to remember it. Believe me when I say this, I've done it a thousand times. I know that you want to hate me, and I know that you wish me pain and hurt. But sometimes that's not what it's all about. And sometimes that's not the way to lessen the pain. It will only come back threefold."

She took another deep breath and looked down on me, her hand still extended.

"I want to help. I don't want to make you uncomfortable though. Draco, you're welcome to stay here. It's not that bad, and living alone is pretty hard. I had to do it after Colin died, and I never could get used to the silence. So let me help you. Please."

I could only ask one question as I stared up at her from my back. "Why?"

She looked away from me, above me, and let her hand fall quietly. She looked a bit lost, a little distant, and more than a little unruffled. "I'm a Gryffindor, Draco, not a Hufflepuff. I don't take in every stray that comes to my door. I don't feel pity for every man on this earth. Hell, I hate just as well as you do. But I know what's right. And I know what's wrong. Denying your presence would be like denying my own. Denying what you are would be like denying what I am."

"And what are you?" I couldn't help it.

She simply held out her hand, and I felt myself grabbing for it. When she had helped me to my feet, she looked up at me with large tawny eyes. "Just me, Draco. Just me."

* * *

Feelings,  
Nothing more than feelings,  
Trying to forget my,  
Feelings of hate.

* * *

º "Now, […] black, black, or black." (Ginny) – quote by Martha, _The Secret Garden_


End file.
